


Pieces Mended

by AcidArrow



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst with a Happy Ending, Circus Performer Clint Barton, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Clint Barton, M/M, Male Slash, Non-consensual themes, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Protective Phil Coulson, SHIELD Husbands, Slow Burn, Sub Clint Barton, phlint - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:58:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6185086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidArrow/pseuds/AcidArrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trust is not easily earned, and very easily broken. Sometimes, it can take a long time for old scars to fully heal over, and sometimes, we will do whatever it takes to hide those scars from everyone... including the ones we trust the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a SHIELD Husbands [A/B/O dynamics](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Alpha/Beta/Omega) fic written by myself (Clint Barton) and my wife Miin (Phil Coulson). Lots and lots of angst, with hurt/comfort for dessert. ;) We hope you enjoy!

Clint Barton knew of _nothing_ in the world that helped you cope with a near-death experience like mind-blowing, shoulder-biting, pillow-eating _sex_.

Natasha was on top of him -- Natasha was _always_ on top, save for the times he managed to wrestle the freakishly-strong, lithe, sexy redhead beneath him and trap her there with his weight whilst simultaneously working his way inside of her. There was nothing romantic, or soft, or beautiful about the way the two agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. spent this time together -- there was nothing that could be described using the type of language you would find in a Hallmark card or in some poetic online comic book fan-fiction.

It was _animalistic_ , with claws and teeth and -- on occasion -- blood. There was that session she had walked away from covered in half-circle cuts and bruises, or the time he hadn’t been able to stretch or workout properly without feeling each and every deep groove she had dug into his back and hips with her _freakin’ talons_.

But it was consensual -- and, more than that, it was _therapeutic_. Somewhere, amidst the tangled sheets and sweaty limbs and blood-stained clothing that they ripped desperately and violently away from each other’s bodies, they found a form of solace that no other method of release was able to grant them. A nirvana that no one else could help them reach.

Something that made the terrible things the two of them had to do _slightly_ more bearable.

He was hot and hard and deep inside her, both of her thighs wrapped tightly around his hips, wedged into nerve endings that kept the larger, stronger body pinned beneath her own. His fist was in her hair, gripping the fiery curls hard enough to force her to cry out, so that he could slide his tongue into her mouth, mimicking each and every one of the quick pumps of her hips with deep, simultaneous thrusts of his tongue.

 _“Fuck you, Barton,”_ she panted when she finally freed her lips from his, before sinking her teeth sharply into his bottom lip and slamming her pussy down  _hard_ , gripping him and squeezing as he was no longer able to contain himself and he came, hot and heavy, inside of her.

_“And fuck... f-fuck you, too.. Rom... Romanoff...”_

The two agents sprawled across each other, wrapped up in Clint’s old and worn-out flannel sheets and a tangle of limbs, drenched in their own sweat as well as each other’s. Natasha was gasping something in his ear, showing a level of weakness that she very seldom allowed other people to see, but Clint’s hearing aid must have been knocked during their violent tussle because he couldn’t hear a thing.

His hand came lazily up to his ear, readjusting the piece that had fallen out of his ear canal, just in time to hear the end of what his partner was repeating to him: “-- phone is going off. Text message.”

“Ungh... fuck. What tone?”

“Uhm, the Imperial Death March?”

“Goddammit, that’s Coulson.” Clint was rolling onto his side with a grunt, his hand reaching blindly across the messy side table for his phone, which he had barely remembered to plug in before Natasha had quite literally torn his cargo pants open at the front and dragged him onto the bed with her freaky-crazy ninja-skills. Natasha groaned, lifting her head so that he could reach further.

“Really? You’re answering it?”

“I’m technically on-call.”

“And suddenly you care about that,” came the sardonic response, which carried just a note of incredulousness. Hawkeye rolled his eyes at her and grabbed his phone, swiping the screen to open the message.

 _I’M RUNNING SOME TESTS AND I NEED A WARM BODY.  
_ _WOULD APPRECIATE THE HELP IF YOU’RE FREE_.

“Ugh... I gotta go in.”

“You’re not free,” the Black Widow said coolly, having somehow caught the message in the brief splinter of a second she had seen the screen (a skill of hers), but she was already untangling her long, strong legs from his own so that he could redress himself after... well, tidying up. He would no doubt want to shower; they had gotten right down to it after checking out of the S.H.I.E.L.D. infirmary following an assignment that had gone... well, while Clint was hesitant to say it had gone _wrong_ , considering they had technically achieved their objective, it hadn’t exactly gone _right_ either. Thankfully, some quick-thinking on both his end and Natasha’s had saved both of their asses... but that didn’t erase the fact that a poorly-timed muscle spasm in his left hand had knocked his bow out of aim, causing his arrow to fall far short of its target.

The spasms were happening more and more often, especially over the past few weeks, and it was getting to a point now where it was seriously starting to impact him on the job. But that was the price you paid when you wanted to score illegal, underground,  untraceable drugs -- the type that even _S.H.I.E.L.D.’s_ high-end tech couldn’t detect in your bloodstream.

And since Coulson had warned him -- in that cheerfully snarky way he did, with a careless, _“Oh, and by the way, Barton, we’re updating our drug screening process to stay on top, so all that dope we both know you smoke? Let’s try to keep it somewhat lower than a Bob Marley level, okay?”_ \-- he’d known he had to make a change. The drugs that were available on the market _weren’t_ good enough anymore, and thankfully, a friend had hooked him up with something... _better_.

“So, you going, or do I get to pound you into the sheets again?”

Clint threw a smirk over his shoulder at his flame-haired partner and rolled to his feet. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back. You’re on food ordering duty. I don’t care what we get as long as it’s not Chinese again.”

“Roger that. Don’t let him tire you out.”

“Like he even could.” Clint shot her a wink and left the bedroom, nearly tripping over Lucky on the way, who had decided the top of the stairs was the best place to nap while Scruffy People and Graceful People were doing things that appeared to be some sort of team sport he wasn’t invited to. He bounded into the room to curl up on the pile of clothes in the corner that smelled like his main Person, while Natasha stretched out beneath the sheets that smelled like Clint and let her ever-present thoughts fade out of existence for just a few short hours.

*

Hawkeye had brought his bow and quiver, mostly because he was hoping that, in doing so and being prepared, he could somehow shift the fabrics of fate in such a way that he wouldn’t end up spending the next hour standing as still as possible in the middle of a huge empty room while Coulson measured out bullet trajectories because he didn’t trust the guys who got paid to do that shit more than he trusted himself. With any luck, Coulson needed him for something _fun_ , or at least something _somewhat_ interesting. Something that wouldn’t make him regret dutifully choosing work over sex.

And not just any sex. _Nat_ sex. That was worth, like, _three-_ sex from most other girls.

Clint rode the elevator down to the sublevels of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, where the uppermost agents each had lockers of various sizes which they could use for storing various things, lockers which could only be accessed by the agent him- or herself. He had received the list of things he was and was not permitted to do with his _own_ two moderately-sized storage lockers, and considering Coulson’s security clearance was much higher than his own...

Well. Let’s just say he didn’t want to see the list of things _Coulson_ was permitted to do with _his_ lockers.

“Hey, man,” he greeted the older agent with a slight wave and a nod of his head. Phil was wearing a pair of sound-cancelling headphones, which led Clint to believe that hopefully yes, he _would_ be doing something fun.

“Startin’ to think you maybe needed more than just _any_ warm body,” said Clint, mentally as sharp as ever, motioning to the headphones. “Guessing I’m goin’ hearing aids out today?”

Coulson smiled blandly at Clint, tapping his fingers lightly on his thigh before pulling his headphones off.

“For the first part, no,” he said, and then nodded to the lockers over to the left. “Store your gear. I have everything set up inside for you for now. I’ll flash the comm light when it’s time to change tactics.” He licked his lower lip and then sighed, walking over to the one-way mirror, fidgeting with the blinds that were lowered and closed.

“They never dust down here,” he muttered under his breath and then shot a look at Clint, who was already crossing the small corridor to the gear rack beside the door to the locker. “I should complain.”

“You? Complain about the general cleanliness of this building, or whichever building you happen to find yourself in?” Clint slid his bow onto the rack with as much love and care as a mother handling her infant, shooting him a sly grin over one muscular shoulder. “ _Never_.”

He shrugged his quiver off of his shoulder and leaned it against the wall, flexing his hands a little as he pulled them away from the rigid leather. The spasms were getting worse... but, in typical Clint fashion, he decided that it was a concern to be dealt with on another day. Like way, way, _way_ into the future.

Coulson snorted, a noise in the back of his throat that sounded a lot like _jackass_ , and went to sit at the desk, pulling out a fresh sheaf of paper to make notes.

“Enough, Barton. As much as it would be fun to trade witticisms with you, I spent my morning dealing with Mr. Stark, so I’m a little tapped out of pithy replies. Into the testing chamber, please.” He made some quick short marks on the paper, not looking up at Clint even as the younger man rolled his eyes and yanked the door open.

“Fine, fine. But I’ll have you know I gave up some _really_ good sex to help you with this, so you owe me one.”

He placed one foot over the threshold of the locker and stepped inside, and immediately a wall of blackness hit him, rendering him temporarily blind as well as deaf. “Um... lights, _El Capitan_?” he called out into the dark, clapping his hands in the air for effect as the door clicked shut behind him. “Unless, you know, it’s supposed to be dark in here, in which case a little warning would’ve been appreciated...”

“Warning. Yes. Warning. Advising your handler of things, _warning_ them, that something was going wrong with your health, would have been appreciated. Since you have stymied me in every way, I’ve decided that a little time out is in order. Tell me, Agent Barton, which would you prefer for your first meal? Chicken or beef?” The disembodied voice echoed flatly in the room as the lights came up, revealing thickly padded walls, and a padded floor. A thin mattress was in one corner.

Clint blinked several times against the harsh glow of the lights, his brow furrowing in confusion beneath his messy, waxy bangs. That... _wasn’t_ what he had been expecting. Hard floors, maybe a target or some piece of gear or equipment he was supposed to test.

The padding lining the room wasn’t what was bothering him, causing a small droplet of sweat to trace the line of his jaw while his heart lifted centimeter by centimeter into his throat. The mattress, on the other hand...

“Agent? Chicken or beef?”

Clint swallowed, snapping violently back into the moment. He’d been silent about fifteen seconds now, and Coulson’s question continued to linger unanswered in the locker. _Cell_.

“Coulson... what the hell’s going on...?”

“The relationship between agent and handler is one of implicit trust, and total honesty. Do you trust me, Agent?”

With each second that passed, Clint was beginning to question that more and more himself. He didn’t move, stood still in the centre of the room, his mind and heart both racing. “... I think so? At least, I did until about forty-five seconds ago. Why?”

“Are you being honest with me, Agent?”

“Um... yeah?” Clint’s sneakers squeaked on the padded floor as he turned to where the window was in the side wall, the blinds still shut tight. “Seriously, man, you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”

There was the sound of a locker door opening through the comm system, and silence for a few moments.

Then the blinds pulled up, and Phil was stood on the other side of the glass, holding up his quiver in one hand and his bow in the other. Clint’s heart wedged itself firmly in his esophagus.

_Aw, fuck... NO..._

“Where are the pills, Barton?”

“Pills?” Feigning innocence was always a spy and master assassin’s first line of defense, and no doubt, if Phil had figured out what the hell was going on, he was anticipating it. Clint squinted his eyes and frowned in well-performed confusion. “ _What_ pills?”

Phil raised an eyebrow at him and pulled the bow out, looking at it, feeling along its length with fingers.

“The pills, Clint. Your suppressants.” He put the bow down on the desk and sighed, and picked up the quiver. “Where are they?”

As if on cue, Hawkeye’s previously loyal left hand betrayed him by spasming sharply, painfully, at his side. The side effects were getting... worse. Had been for weeks, now. And ignoring them didn’t seem to be making them any better, despite his optimism.

“Suppressants?” If Clint Barton didn’t know how to tell a convincing lie, he’d be dead. In fact, he’d have died _years_ ago. Whether or not he could lie well enough to convince _Coulson_ was another matter entirely. But then again... he’d been lying to Coulson, and everyone else at S.H.I.E.L.D., for over a decade now.

“Suppressants like, like what _kind_ of suppressants?” he asked, taking the careful steps to bring him closer to the window. He didn’t like the way the older agent’s fingers were sifting through his arrows, gingerly drawing each one from its slot and laying it on the desk. “Phil, you’re seriously freaking me out, now. The hell’s this about?”

Phil just looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and slowly laid down each arrow until his fingers wrapped around one that felt just slightly... _off_.

He held it up to the light and then looked at Clint. He brought the arrow down hard, banging the head on the side of the table. It snapped back and a spray of small, white pills showered the edge of the desk and the floor. With a silent exhalation of defeat, Clint hung his head a little, grey-blue eyes fluttering half-closed in annoyance.

_God-fucking-dammit._

“ _Those_ suppressants. Heat suppressants.”

Forcing himself to remain calm, Clint swallowed his heart back down into his chest and snorted. “Suppressants? Are you serious?” His hand spasmed at his side again, fingers twitching against his will -- something that had caused him to miss several shots that should’ve been _easy_ to make recently, but he hadn’t had a _choice_ \--

“Why the fuck would I need heat suppressants?” he asked, sounding almost angry with Coulson for the accusation that he was an Omega. A fucking _Omega_ , seriously? _Him_ !? “They’re for fucking _Omegas_ , if a Beta took ‘em it’d make ‘em stupidly sick, and...

“Okay, look, fine,” he said with a huffing sigh, folding both thick arms across his chest. “I’ve been... taking these vitamins. They’re kinda like steroids. But better, _way_ better. Like, Agent Lewis running in the Olympics better. And before you bitch me out about trust, they’re fucking _illegal_ , what was I supposed to tell you? That I’ve been feeling my age recently and I needed a little boost to stay on top?”

Coulson just _looked_ at him.

“Vitamins. Right. Well, I’ll see you in twenty-four hours. I guess I’ll bring you the chicken.” He walked towards the door of the viewing room, only stopping when both of Clint’s hands hit the two-way glass, which he _sensed_ rather than heard, as the room was entirely soundproofed save for when the microphone was switched on.

“ _HEY_ ! _Wait_ a fucking second, are you fucking _SERIOUS_!?”

When Coulson turned back to the window, Clint was _seething_ at him, fire burning in the pits of his eyes. “You can’t fucking _leave_ me in here, man! The fuck you _THINKING_!?”

Phil glared at Clint.

“I trust you with my life. You trust me with your life. You lied about your designation. Do you want to know what happens if I walk upstairs and let them know? Immediate detox. Lock down for a _week_ being supervised by S.H.I.E.L.D. medical staff.” Anger vibrated in every inch of his body as he stared Clint down, the Alpha challenge leaking into his voice. “You want that, Barton? At least this way you can be honest with S.H.I.E.L.D. on your own terms. I either walk out of here and tell them and they will come and take you, or you sweat it out in there. Your choice.”

He held up his cellphone, his slitted eyes boring into Clint’s own, which were a good deal wider than they had been less than a minute ago. “Tell me what call you want me to make.”

For Clint, time was standing still. He had only retained about half of Coulson’s speech; the other fifty per cent had gone in one ear, rattled around in his brain for a while, and flown right out the other one. His calloused hands had fallen from the glass at some point and now hung, lifeless and stiff, at his sides. _Defensive_. His entire stance screamed defensive, at least on a subconscious level, somewhere deep beneath the surface. His instincts were on high alert, even as he had been completely thrown off -- ready to flee, or to fight. Instincts that had existed for as long as he hadn’t had a big brother twice his size to take care of him.

“Phil...”

His entire tone of voice had changed, his low tenor now weak, shaky, and lacking all confidence. He was fully aware how powerless he was in this situation, and was internally kicking himself for underestimating Coulson’s intelligence. His eyes pleaded with his handler, his _friend_... begging for mercy.

Because feigning innocence was over, and he was moving onto bargaining.

“Okay. Look. We can talk, all right? We can figure something out... but you gotta let me outta here, man. Please.”

Phil’s shoulders dropped and he just shook his head.

“If you had come to me... I could have made this work. I’ll see you in twenty-four.”

The next time Clint’s hands hit the glass -- and the third time, and the fourth -- Coulson didn’t turn. In fact, he didn’t react to him in any way whatsoever, letting the door fall shut off of his fingers and leaving Clint alone in the padded room, the split dummy arrow and spray of tiny white pills littering the desk on the other side of the window.

Tiny white pills he had gone to such extreme lengths to hide, both physically _and_ in his system.  
  
His head pressed against the glass and he exhaled, closing his eyes. The next twenty-four hours were going to be... _interesting_ , to say the least. Hopefully, the challenge of escaping an inescapable, high-level, S.H.I.E.L.D. security cell would be... enough of a _distraction_ for him.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t the piercing headache that had broken him, left him sitting cross-legged on his mattress with his arms folded across his chest, every muscle stiff and taut to hold off the shivers and the shakes. It wasn’t the way his unreliable-at-the-best-of-times hearing faded in and out, even _with_ the custom hearing aids Stark had built him. It wasn’t the dizziness, or the nausea.

It was the _fever_. It had peaked about an hour ago, his face red and his skin slick with sweat, and that had been the moment when exhaustion had taken over, and the man who had been trained to fight -- to kill people -- even when he hadn’t slept for days had finally collapsed into a heap on his mattress to rest. Since then, he had moved sluggishly in and out of conscious thought, the fever showing no signs of breaking any time soon.

And, if his body hadn’t changed too much from when he was sixteen, it wouldn’t either. At least not for a day or so, when he finally went into...

The sound of a door opening wrenched him back into reality, his head snapping up. His face was damp, tee-shirt sticking to his chest and shoulders, and his eyes were having trouble focusing. Goddamn, and he had thought the side-effects of the heat suppressants were bad... coming down off of them when they barely had a half-life of eight hours was brutal.

But hey, that was the price you paid when you wanted to score those illegal, underground, _untraceable_ drugs -- remember?

As Coulson entered the booth on the other side of the glass and the lights, which had dimmed about twelve hours ago so that Clint could sleep, slowly came back on his eyes took in the state of the cell he had locked his friend and agent in. Hawkeye had clearly wanted to challenge the _inescapable_ part of the locker’s description -- the mattress had been flung across the room, torn open and raided for ‘parts’, which had obviously been abandoned once the master assassin realized it was constructed entirely of memory foam. Some squares of the leather-wrapped foam padding had been stripped away methodically -- considering Clint’s watch was in pieces on the floor, he had no doubt broken it in order to use the sharp edges and tiny components as tools. The glass was dented in places, bent inward as it was designed to by Stark so that it wouldn’t shatter, and the corners of the room looked like they’d been ransacked and raided as well.

“Okay... fine...” he huffed out, his mouth dry and scratchy as another bead of sweat trickled over the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t even sure if the microphone was on, if Coulson could even hear him, but regardless he cleared his throat and did his best to sound _less_ sick than he actually was. “So it _is_ unescapable... big deal...”

Phil raised an eyebrow at the man inside the room and sighed, shaking his head. He had a tray in his hands and he set it down on the desk in the interrogation room.

“You always do like to test the limits, Clint,” he said and then pointed at the tray. “I brought you water and food. You’re going to need it when the heat hits you, and I’m willing to be you’re already more than a little uncomfortable. Will you behave if I give you this water bottle and MREs?” He held up one bar and looked at it. “This one is s’mores flavoured. I never did like s’mores. I was always more of a savoury snack kind of child.”

Clint wrinkled his nose. He wasn't really a fan of MREs in general, regardless of what ‘flavour’ they were striving to be. He looked at the unappetizing food bar and, for the fifty-seven thousandth time in twenty-four hours, wished he had just ignored his phone and gone back to fucking Nat.

“Well, if you don't give me the water, I might dehydrate in here,” he responded cattily, peeling the back of his head away from the wall behind him so that he could shoot a glare at his handler. Somewhere in his eyes was that same childish glower he had drunkenly given Coulson several times in the past, only this time far, far, far more hurt.

Sadly, he wasn't able to comprehend how much he had _also_ hurt the man on the other side of the thick pane of glass, the man he had trusted with his life on so many occasions he’d lost count after his first month as a field agent. He coughed into his hand and wiped the sweat from his brow; he wanted to remove his shirt, but he was stubbornly determined to outlast his friend-turned-captor.

“So really, it's more about -- about if you want me to die or not.”

Phil sighed and walked to the door, opening the latch and slid the tray on the floor just inside, closing the access hatch again. Clint did his best not to watch, but the presence of ice-cold fluid wasn’t easy to ignore. His mouth felt like the love-child of cotton wool and styrofoam.

“I would say this hurts me as much as it hurts you, but I don’t believe that. But this isn’t easy for me, Clint. Now, do you want to tell me who gave you suppressants that we couldn’t find on your tox screen? I need answers.”

“Aren't you like, _totally_ fucking _pissed_ that I managed to sneak this past you all for _twelve_ years?” It was a cheap shot, he knew, but if Phil wanted to treat this like an interrogation, then fine... he would put on his interrogation face. And Phil would learn first-hand that top-level S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, especially the ones he had _personally_ trained, were the hardest to break.

Irony could be a _total_ bitch at times.

“I mean, that’s gotta suck some serious --” he paused to cough, “-- some serious elephant-sized testicles, huh? Especially after how much of the budget we blow on the science side of things here. Poor science nerds.”

Phil looked at him with a bleak expression, and sighed, shoulders slumping a little. Deep down, somewhere under the metaphorical armour and chainmail he had donned the instant he realized his friend had betrayed him, his heart ached at how much this had hurt a man with whom he had once shared an almost perfect mutual trust.

But there were some things you just _didn't_ share. With _anyone_.

“I just don’t understand why you felt you had to hide from me, of all people. Were you concerned I would... take advantage?”

“Depending on how long I’m in here, I’m gonna need a TV or something.” Clint couldn't deal with this, the conversation he’d hoped and prayed would never be one he had to suffer through. Phil Coulson was _never supposed to know_ , and yet here he was, and there _he_ was, and this was happening. And this time, it wasn't just a nightmare that left him awake and sweating at three in the morning -- it was real.

“‘Cuz really, unless you're trying to _bore_ me to death, you’re not gon -- nnnnnnnnrgh!” His left hand locked and spasmed at his side, fingers seizing up far more painfully than they ever had before, and his right hand immediately snapped across his lap to wrap around it defensively. He grit his teeth and swallowed back another wave of stomach-churning pain. This wasn't the first time; over the past few hours, the spasms had been coming far more frequently, and were far more debilitating. Somewhere beneath the immediate panic, an underlying anxiety bubbled away that being taken off of the suppressants cold turkey may be doing irreversible nerve damage to his extremely _important_ forearm and hand.

When he looked back up again, squinting through the slowly fading stabs of pain, Coulson was at the door, looking like he wanted to come in and _help_.

“Dammit, Clint,” Phil snarled. “Who the fuck gave you these drugs? Tell me. I’ll get them in here, no questions asked, but I need to know... I need to get you help. The kind of help I can’t give you. Under the radar, obviously, but... please. Just tell me.”

Clint was breathing heavily through his teeth in light hisses as the pain throbbed and finally ebbed, leaving his wrist limp and twitching in his lap. He shook his head with a snort of a laugh, a sound that was more bitter than amused.

“Phil, you and I _both_ know that ain't gonna happen. I don't kiss and tell. I’m pretty sure the mess I was in when you pulled me outta that office building in Buenos Aires is proof enough of that,” he added as a muttered afterthought, shuddering a little at the memory.

He licked his chapped, dry lips; the bottle of water was drenched in beads of condensation and was calling to him more and more with every dragging second. But he didn't want Phil to know how drained he was after just twenty-four hours.

“You got what you wanted, I’m in here miserable and sweatin’ it out.” He wiped his forehead on his sleeve again; it felt like the room was a hundred degrees and soaking wet around him. “I'm not gonna tell you where I got ‘em. Don't you have a bunch of lackeys can go figure that out for you?”

Phil closed his eyes and sighed. “Because I want to hear it from you. Again, discretion, I want to be able to bring this person in to _help_ you. If I involve anyone else I’m going to have to make this whole farce official.” He visibly swallowed.

“I’ll give you another day to think it out.”

Clint wasn't sure which came first -- the wave of  almost overwhelming nausea that forced him to closed his eyes and focus on his breathing for a few good long seconds, or the pang of fear at the thought of being left alone in silence and near-darkness for another twenty-four hours. Or maybe the latter was the cause of the former. His eyes opened again and he looked up at the window, at the silhouette of his friend. His heart ached to tell the truth, to reach out and firmly take the helping hand Phil had extended to him... but every time he opened his mouth to do so, his brother’s words shut it again.

No... he couldn't. He could let that happen to himself. He _wouldn't_.

“I’m not gonna do that, Phil... I’m… I’m sorry. I really am, but... I'm not.” He coughed again to clear his throat and shifted to get his knees under him so that he could scoot across the floor and grab the bottle of water. It felt like his body weighed a thousand pounds. His limbs swung uncoordinated and his internal organs felt like they were being thrown around as he crawled as best he could to the tray. The water bottle was cool in his hand and he exhaled softly at the icy, damp feel of it.

“Let’s just say it's a contact you’d have to literally _torture_ me to get me to give up... ‘kay?” He cracked the water bottle open with some difficulty and gasped as a few drops hit his hand. “Take that… that big smart brain of yours and do with that info what you will. That's all I’m sayin’ about it.”

Phil closed his eyes in internal anguish, turned, and left the room without another word, leaving the imprisoned agent to his sweet, sweet refreshment. He would spent the next twelve hours not sleeping, just as he had spent the last twenty-four, instead watching and checking in on his struggling agent via the various surveillance and medical monitoring systems he’d had installed in the cell for years now, for situations similar to this.

The last thing he wanted to do was get anyone else involved in this… not given how terrified Clint very obviously was. But if something happened to the agent that scared Phil enough -- if his comedown from the suppressants caused him to stop breathing, or his heart rate to speed up or lower too much -- then if Clint refused to give the name of his supplier, he would _have_ to seek help beyond his own person.  
  
And that was the _last_ thing he wanted to do right now. For _Clint’s_ sake.


	3. Chapter 3

_“Do you have those tapes compiled for me?”_

Phil Coulson was, as Tony Stark had said once upon a time, a _grand master_ of the elegantly distorted word, and the fact that no one ever seemed to question him on anything he said was working in Clint’s favour this morning as he lied his way from one end of the S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance department to the other. He had spent fifteen minutes in his office freshening up and changing his shirt and tie so that it wouldn’t be obvious to everyone he walked past that he had spent the night again.

That part was _less_ because he wanted to attract suspicion, and more because he didn’t like people wandering about with the mental image of him drooling into his desk.

He flipped the disc over and over in his hands several times, eyes flicking up the first of three HD computer monitors on his work surface, which showed five different angles of the cell his agent was currently housed within, as well his heart rate and vitals, which was accessible via extremely sensitive Stark (well, and Banner) tech that scanned the room for living organisms and then monitoring them. Other than his heart beating a little fast and his core temperature being slightly but safely elevated, he was stable. He was an _idiot_ , but he was a _stable_ idiot, so there was that.

 _Small comforts,_ he thought bitterly to himself, running his thumb along the smooth edge of the CD before sliding it into the side of the second monitor and sitting back in the large leather chair with an exhausted, exasperated sigh. He did _not_ want to watch any of this footage… he really, really didn’t. But he was starting to crack, starting to get to the point that he wanted to just give another dosage of the suppressants _back_ to Clint, or even worse, betray his trust and admit him to the infirmary -- _anything_ to get him out of that cell and into proper medical care.

He needed to remind himself _why_ he was doing this.

The footage that had been compiled was exactly what he had needed, even if he had told the surveillance department that it was for Agent Barton’s year-end assessment. Different angles swiped from different public surveillance cameras wherever Hawkeye was working, as well as some of their own from the training gym. Nursing his coffee between his hands, Phil tried to settle down so that he could watch the footage from the point of view of a handler and supervisor and not… the point of view of a friend.

He knew what he was looking for, and the different feeds he had been given showed him his fears confirmed again and again. Awkward posture, missed shots, even him losing his grip after leaping onto a concrete structure and landing in a prone ball on the asphalt twelve feet below, cradling his wrist in his other hand. The timestamps printed in various corners of the footage depending on where it was ripped from told him that the repeated issues with Clint’s performance were becoming more and more frequent as time went by.

And they all seemed to revolve around his left wrist. Which was great, really, considering he was primarily an archer.

After about forty-five minutes, Phil could take no more. He shut off the footage and leaned forward on his desk, wedging the balls of his palms into his eye sockets and rubbing them as hard as he could without injuring himself. _Clint Barton… you absolute idiot._

What was he thinking? _What_ the _fuck_ was he _thinking!?_ To go on an unregulated, underground medication without telling anyone, even his _handler?_ And on top of that, who was this supplier that was not only intelligent enough to create a pill that even S.H.I.E.L.D.’s highest tech _couldn’t_ detect, but was also so close to Clint that he refused to give his or her name, even at the possible cost of his own livelihood?

Phil abandoned whatever was left of his coffee on his desk, shutting down everything on his computers and safe-locking the office behind him as he left with a code that no one but he could open again. He was done watching his friend suffer, and he was determined to get to the bottom of this before Clint seriously, _seriously_ hurt himself.

*

By the time Coulson’s second visit to the cell rolled around, the majority of Clint’s nausea had faded and his fever had broken, but the piercing headache and a low growling cramp deep in his gut kept him in miserable company as he continued to sweat profusely. His well-worn jeans and old tee-shirt were sticking to his thighs and his bare arms and shoulders were shiny under the dim artificial lights as he sprawled in the middle of the padded floor, which had more than enough leather square footage that, if he continued to shift positions, he could always find a cool space to lay down on.

He didn't notice Coulson enter the room on the other side of the glass at first; his eyes were closed and he was trying to focus on _anything_ other than the building cramps in his abdomen and the unbearable, throbbing heat in his loins.

The scent of _Omega_ was hot and hard on the air, hitting Coulson like a punch to the gut, and he shivered in his suit, every instinct in his body instantly screaming to dominate. He had to swallow hard and calm himself. He knew it would be difficult, but he had hoped his own Alpha rut suppressants would help in quelling the desire to mate.

Coulson held himself back from yanking the door open, but he did come right to it, fingers wrapping around the handle.

“Clint,” he breathed out, staring at the man inside, wanting to damn well _devour_ him, his eyes bright and feverish in his face. “Clint --” he ground out, and this time, the disembodied voice over the speaker system was able to rouse the man in question from the hazy world of _any-fucking-where but here_ he had retreated to for the past half a day.

The tousled head of ash-blond hair lolled limply to one side, and even though he was finding it hard to focus on any one particular thing, he was more than capable of recognizing his handler’s fuzzy silhouette through the distorted glass pane in the window. That, too, was shatterproof -- he had found that or shortly after slamming most of the more jagged angles of his body into it yesterday.

“Oh, heyyyyyy, buddy...” he called back, trying to sound nonchalant and cool. And like he wasn't currently doing everything he could not to slam his head repeatedly into one of the padded cell walls, or worse, grind himself against the far-too-soft-and-squishy floor beneath him. The world continued to shift around him, and the front of his pants tightened even further and he bit back another whimper.

“Hey, um... listen, I don't feel... I don't feel all that great, so I’m gonna have to ask you if you could go ahead and maybe... maybe come back later. If you could do that... that’d be great...”

Coulson couldn’t help himself. The scent was too strong, too overwhelming, an Omega in need, who needed _him_ , needed an Alpha, needed someone... protection... he opened the door without a word and stepped inside, holding his breath for a second and then closing his eyes, inhaling Clint’s scent in fucking _deep_.

A moment of silence passed, other than the gentle click of the door shutting quietly behind him, as Clint’s sweet, warm, musky smell travelled down his throat into his lungs, electrifying his nerves and heating his bloodstream. But before he could react, Clint was gasping -- a harsh and strangled noise, the sound of a cornered, desperate animal. His strong body bucked up hard from the ground, his spine arching back as he clawed at the leather either side of himself, biceps bulging with the strain of keeping his body’s reaction under control. His eyes were huge, pupils massively dilated as he stared up at the ceiling, his scruffy jaw trembling with the intense effort not to cry out again.

_Oh... oh... aw, FFFFFUCK..._

Coulson’s scent was like a _drug_ . The type of drug he never even knew he was addicted to. His fingers scrabbled pathetically at the squeaky leather, his toes curling within his Chucks, and he bit down _hard_ on his tongue to suck back a whimper of despair.

All of the heat that was rushing through his body was now suddenly gathering between his thighs and in the muscles of his ass. And the longer he was forced to inhale his friend’s scent -- hot and spicy and _dark_ in a way that sent shivers up and down his spine and teased every nerve-ending in his body into submission -- the further and further away his sanity floated.

“If... if you're trying something... _smart_...” he managed to grind out through clenched teeth, his body curling up into a knot in the middle of his floor, eyes squeezing shut tight, “it ain't... it ain't gon’ work, man...”

Phil stared at the Omega, wanting him more than he’d wanted _any_ Omega, and he licked his lips.

“Clint, I’m...” He wanted to say he was sorry, but he wasn’t. Clint smelled amazing, his arousal and need heavy in the air, urging Phil to do something... to _fix it_. He advanced on the younger man, eyes glinting.

“Do you want this?” he asked, voice husky and thick with Alpha command. It deepened his words to a baritone wrapped in crushed velvet, and it tugged every hair on Clint’s body up on end as his skin rippled with desire. He shivered uncontrollably and his hips jerked; his hands immediately gripped them and shoved them back down into the leather with a growl of frustration.

When the Omega looked up again, whimpering softly with want as well as something else -- something that was perhaps more _negative_ \-- as his eyes brimmed with tears. The breathless response that tumbled from his lips, total honesty coaxed out by the other man’s commanding tone of voice, was likely not the one Phil was anticipating.

“N-nnnnnnnnnn... n-n-no...”

Phil inhaled sharply, standing very still. Clint did _not_ want this. He felt the biological drive, the need, to take the Omega and make him present; indeed could demand it, and Clint _would_ present, and maybe some Alphas would have -- definitely did -- take an unwilling Omega during their heat...

Phil had worked on his iron control though, had been subjugated to being trapped in the room with Omegas during a heat, had trained himself to not give in… and he just stood, inhaling Clint’s scent.

“It’s going to hurt, to not… to not give in,” he finally said, “but… I’m not going to force this on you. Just tell me why? Why not?”

Clint was breathing hard, each exhale whistling wetly through his cheeks and teeth. He wrapped and locked himself into a fetal position, which _helped somewhat_ with how desperate he was starting to feel about presenting... somewhat, but not enough. He _knew_ it would hurt, more now than it did for the summer when he was fifteen before he went on suppressants, but it didn't matter to him.

 _Nothing_ was more important than making sure an Alpha was _nowhere near him_ when he was in heat. _Ever_.

“D-don't care--” he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut and keeping himself blind. He didn't want to _see_ Phil, it was bad enough that he had to _smell_ him... and it was a smell that was driving him slowly, but most definitely, insane.

“Don't -- not gonna -- never with an Alpha -- _okay!?_ ” He _spat_ the last word, finally opening his eyes and glaring up at his handler with slate eyes that were burning with anger, despair, courage, fear... mostly fear. He whimpered again and buried his face in one bare bicep as another cramp rolled through his gut, twisting and crunching up his insides. “ _Shit_ \--”

As Phil looked over him, Clint knew he would know -- he would know everything, and there was nothing he could do about it. Coulson had watched Clint bite down on a belt and gurgle out muffled, agonized renditions of several songs off the _Dookie_ album, whilst having his leg sewn up from knee to inner thigh on the field with no painkillers or numbing agents. He’d watched him enthusiastically force medication intended to nauseate him down his own throat in order to cleanse his system of poisons he had inadvertently consumed. There was _nothing_ Hawkeye was afraid to do to stay alive, to dull his own pain, or to keep his body healthy... which was why him rejecting something as simple as _controlled sex_ just didn't fit his profile. At all.

Coulson just nodded, slowly, dawning realization on his face. Something had happened to this man, a long time ago perhaps, when his designation had first begun stirring within him, to make him wary, no, _terrified_ of partnering with an Alpha. It wasn’t uncommon, sadly, that an Omega might be nervous, or uncomfortable about presenting, mating, or being knotted, by an Alpha, especially if their experiences had been less than pleasant in their teenage years. The thought of something having happened to _Clint_ of all people, made his Alpha instincts crazy, and the urge to protect him was overwhelming his urge to mount him and make him his.

“Clint… I won’t. Not unless you ask me to. Okay? I promise, I give you my word. On my own life. But you’re going to need help getting through this. I can help you, but I won’t do anything without your permission.”

Through the broken, blistering haze that enveloped him, Clint saw a faint, faint light. Trembling and sweating in his knotted-up ball on the floor, he peeked his eyes open, peering over the tense bulge of his tricep at Coulson. When he moved, it became more obvious that his teeth had been sinking _deep_ into his upper arm... no doubt keeping him from doing anything his body wanted him to.

The tiniest, most feeble whimper fell out of his mouth, and his eyes softened just a fraction or two. His lips and teeth parted and he looked as if he were trying to say something for a few seconds before he was actually able to make noise.

_All Alphas are the same, Clint. ‘Kay? Just like our old man._

“I --”

_They ain't all your brother and they ain't all gonna be able to control 'emselves around you._

“-- if -- if you really wanna -- I --”

_Don't you ever fucking forget that. Okay?_

“-- Coulson, I need -- I need --”

_You can't trust ‘em. EVER._

His dry, torn lips moved weakly in the general shape of the word _help_ , his eyes pleading for what his mouth just wouldn't let him.

Phil heaved a sigh out and crouched, getting to his knees in front of Clint, making himself smaller, less threatening. He reached out for Clint’s hand, offering his own. The archer’s fingers twitched subconsciously in response against the padded floor.

“Okay, here’s how we’re going to do this, Clint. I’m going to give you a safeword. And you have to give me that safeword before I do _anything_ to you. And you can have another safeword to stop whatever we’re doing once we start. Okay?”

No matter how distressed he was, there was a softness and a warmth to Phil’s eyes that was able to slowly drag him back out from underneath whatever was pinning him down. A warmth that he hadn’t managed to find in anyone else’s, at least not in a way that could calm him with such ease. His voice was smooth and sweet, like thickly poured honey, which wasn’t helping his... _situation_ any, and he swallowed back a moan of want, his eyes glazing over as his handler spoke to him and slowly drew him out of his panic.

“And when I said before I do anything,” continued Coulson, “that means _anything_. I won’t press your boundaries, not unless you tell me it’s okay, and give me that safeword. Okay?”

Coulson’s hand hung there in midair, fingers ever so slightly curled toward him. His palm and fingers were criss-crossed with various scars of various sizes from over the years, overlaid lightly with calluses where the typical pressure points against a handgun would be. Clint stared at it for a long time, and although he didn’t realize his breathing had slowed from a frantic pant and the majority of stress lines in his face had unwrinkled, Phil certainly did, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. His hand stretched out a little further.

“Let’s say you give me colours. Green means you want this. Amber means back off. You give me a red, everything stops. Do you trust me?”

Clint stared at him, his body physically trembling with the effort just not to squirm around and moan on the padded floor. The question itself was enough to jar him out of his hypnotized stupor, at least enough to recognize the _insanely strong_ scent of the Alpha kneeling over him, as well as the _person_ that scent belonged to.

It was Coulson. _Coulson_.

Barney... _had_ to be wrong... right? He... he _had to_...

“I...” Clint swallowed as his vision clouded and another tsunami of raging heat flooded his loins. His mouth was dry and his voice sounded like it didn’t even belong to him.

“I... I do... yeah...”

With renewed vigor, his hand shot out and gripped his friend’s slightly smaller one. The skin-to-skin contact _burned_ somewhere deep inside of him and he immediately regretted the moan that slipped past his iron will, gritting his teeth to avoid embarrassing himself further as Phil squeezed his hand firmly in return.

*

“Alright. Good. That’s great, Clint. You’re doing great. Now… can I touch you? Can I…”

Phil’s eyes fell to Clint’s mouth and a visible shiver went through the Alpha.

“Can I kiss you? You have to say green, or I won’t do it.”

He wanted to kiss him. He wanted so badly to push him down onto the floor, run his face down Clint’s neck and _take_ of the man’s body. Every drop of blood in his veins was begging him, telling him, to follow his instincts and claim the desperate Omega for his own. And so Phil fought it, grit his teeth, bore down on the inside of his cheek with sharp incisors, and resisted the urge to swiftly undress and knot Clint. This was… Clint, his asset, his agent, his co-worker, and subordinate. He would not, under any circumstances, hurt him.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt Phil to resist. He licked his dry lips.

“Clint? Can I kiss you?” he asked again, because it had been at least thirty seconds and the younger man had done little more than stare back at him, eyes ever so slightly rounder with increased fear. Maybe that had been a mistake...

“N-not yet.” He sounded stern, despite the quiver to his voice. His shaky hand left Phil’s for a moment, quite possibly because the physical contact was stirring too much in the more inexperienced man, but within a few seconds he had re-grasped it for comfort and he began to do his best to get to his knees. “Not... not yet. Okay?”

Dammit. Phil breathed out, rapidly inhaling Clint’s scent, and his cheeks flushed. He rubbed a thumb across the palm of Clint’s hand, going for soothing, but also hoping the touch was arousing at the same time. He didn’t want to push him, didn’t want to hurt him or stress his already fragile boundaries, but at the same time…

“Omega,” he said, just the slightest hint of Alpha command in his voice, knowing it would raise the hairs on the back of Clint’s neck and make him tremble a little more for him. Which it did. “Whatever you want. You tell me. This is all about you and your needs.”

For a few seconds, Hawkeye looked like he was going to explode from fighting the instinctual and extremely honest response that was due. Then, he curled into a tight ball on his knees on the floor, choking out a soft whimpering cry.

“I need... I need to feel safe...” His entire frame was shaking with effort as he was unable to resist a truthful answer, and Phil could tell his rear had lifted just a little as he knelt there, whether he knew it or not. “I need to know you’re not gonna be like that, like all the others, I need to know I can trust ya, I need to know you’re in control and you ain’t gonna lose it, I need... I need...”

As much as the sight of Clint being on the edge of presenting for him, Phil kept steady, listening to the words that Clint was saying, focused on them hard. There had been something, or someone, who’d hurt Clint in the past -- that much was obvious based on the man’s general demeanour, but now it made more sense with the illegal suppressants, the lying to his friends, the complete desire to deny his designation _entirely_.

“Did an Alpha hurt you?” he asked. “Did someone… try something without your permission?”

To his surprise, Clint snorted a half-laugh and shook his head very quickly. “No, no... not when Barney was around, but... he was almost always around, so... so I always had protection.”

Phil watched him closely, studying the lines of his body and reached out to touch Clint’s neck, to touch the pulse point there.

“What colour, Clint?” he asked, fingers freezing inches away from Clint’s skin. He didn’t need to ask further about his upbringing. There were pockets, in the Midwest specifically, where Omegas were often treated as no better than breeding stock, and a young unclaimed Omega would be taken by any passing Alpha who cared to claim them. Coupling that with the fact that the archer and his older brother had both been orphaned at a young age...

“Green. For now,” he added as an immediate afterthought, almost as if terrified that he needed to keep reminding Phil of his anxiety. His strong arms, weak and trembling, wrapped around himself as he nudged himself forward against his handler’s outstretched fingers.

“Barney took care of me. There were a couple Omegas in the circus... we were family, y’know? We... we looked out for each other.” He lowered his head again and shook violently for a few seconds, no doubt fighting another wave of need that wanted him to just shut up and _present_.

Right. Of course. At least Clint had found some support… the urge to protect (his-not his) Omega was fluttering in his gut, right alongside the desire to fuck the other man senseless. Thankfully his training and personal willpower held out. His fingertips brushed lightly along Clint’s pulsepoint, pulling a low groan from the Omega, who instantly threw his head to the left in order to bare his throat for him. Phil growled, softly, under his breath, a sound that he unconsciously knew would go right to Clint’s groin, force the man to submit further, swamp him with the desire to present. Phil shuddered as the other man’s hands both fell to his thighs and gripped them, thumbs digging in _dangerously_ close to where he was pressing against his zipper.

“What… what colour, Clint?” he asked, looming over Clint and looking down at him with lust-darkened eyes. The archer’s head was still thrown to one side and he was panting, gasping for air.

“Amber, _amber_ \--” he spluttered, almost frantically, despite the fact that his body was telling a very different story. He whimpered to himself, his strong fingers crushing Phil’s thighs, putting a great deal of his weight forward on his handler as he swayed dizzily.

“Fuck, Phil, I don’t wanna do this,” he whimpered all of a sudden, and if Coulson didn’t know the agent better, he would’ve sworn he was crying. “Phil, please, _please_ , I don’t wanna do this, I don’t wanna bond with an Alpha yet, _please_...”

Phil shuddered and grabbed Clint by the shoulders, holding him upright, hanging onto him, but not moving to do anything else. He would… _not_ cross the line with Clint. No matter what.

“I am not going to be bonding you. Not today, or any day, not unless it was something we both wanted,” he said, each word steady and calm. “If… you decide you want this, I’ll take you, but I will not bond you without your permission.” His fingers stroked under Clint’s chin, soothingly, encouraging the younger man to lift his eyes to him, which he did. “That will never happen.”

Clint’s blue eyes were full of a terror Coulson had never seen in them before. But there was also resolve in there, somewhere, and his draw hand jerked up and grab Coulson’s wrist, squeezing it in understanding.

“Promise...?” he asked, and as he did unspoken in his voice was a promise of his own -- right on the edge of closing his eyes and allowing himself to topple headfirst into trusting the relationship the two of them had spent the past decade building up.

“I swear to you on my life,” Phil said seriously, thumb tracing along Clint’s jaw as he knelt down in front of Clint fully. “A bond is a serious, serious commitment,” he said, a hint of teasing in his voice, “and I’m not sure I can bond with someone who can’t even match his socks.”

He smiled kindly, trying to get Clint to relax a little more. It was forty per cent his own iron will that gave him the strength to not just mount his friend on the spot, and sixty per cent his intense desire _not_ to shatter the trust Hawkeye had dared to put in him. No matter how desperate he got, he would chew his tongue off behind a smile before he would _ever_ let Clint know how close to losing control he was.

No matter how long it took, he would do this right... and he wouldn’t touch a single feather on his little bird’s head until he had his total and _complete_ permission.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FROM ~ACIDARROW: This chapter contains very mature, explicit, and possibly triggering themes, such as the attempted assault/rape of a fifteen-year-old male and some revenge violence. If you are concerned that this chapter may be too dark or triggering for you, and want to know more details before proceeding, I have written up a one-paragraph description of the chapter on my Tumblr, which you can check out [here](http://acidarrowguy.tumblr.com/post/141342893186/pieces-mended-acidarrow-miin-phlint-abo) (obviously it will contain spoilers for the chapter). Thank you for using your trigger-sense!

_Somewhere just outside New Orleans, LA  
_ _August 1997  
_  
After three summers, Clint had decided -- he _hated_ Louisiana. It was _hot_ , hotter than he ever remembered Iowa getting, even at the very peak of summer when the grass was scorched and the dry ground crumbled to dust beneath their sneakers. The beat-up old 1984 VW Westfalia camper -- which was home to the Barton brothers as well as Penny (one of the trapeze girls, a young Omega that Barney had taken under his wing) and one of Clint’s knife-throwing buddies -- offered absolutely no relief from the sweltering heat, and the big top was even _worse_ , though that may have been because he’d spent the past fifteen minutes doing acrobatics in tight, purple, leather pants which now felt like they were actually physically fused to his thighs.

“Good job, Hawkboy,” said Buck as he passed him backstage, his mentor nudging his thin but toned shoulder with his own much bulkier arm as he passed him.

“It’s _Hawkingbird!_ ” Clint shot back, turning on his heel to point at the other man, but the large Beta was already snorting and shaking his head. “I’m changing it.”

“No you’re not, Clint, are you fucking serious? I told you, that name’s _horseshit_.”

“Well, good thing it’s not your name, then, ain’t it?”

“Asshole.” Buck stopped before heading back into the audience section, pausing at the tent flap, and turned back to his young protege.

“Hey, Clint, kiddo? You want me to walk ya back to the van?”

Clint paused, biting his lower lip. Several emotions began to bubble up inside of him, almost like a pot put over the fire to boil. Embarrassment, shame, anger... his cheeks flushed, this time with a different kind of heat to that of the climate of the state he was in, and he very quickly shook his head in a rapid, jerking motion.

“No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Buck pulled an expression. “You know, your brother’ll kill me if --”

“Dude, I’m _fine_ , okay?” The young archer had a look on his face that was both hurt and angry at the same time, his hands balled up into fists at his sides. “It’s not like I’m _Penny_ , all right? I can _walk back_ to my _fucking van_.”

“Okay, okay, geez.” His mentor held his hands up. “I’m sorry, I gotta ask, y’know? Neighbourhood watch.”

“Well, just... go make sure Shaniya ain’t gettin’ perved on too bad, or something,” grumbled Clint, crossing his arms over his bare chest and leaning against the solid tent pole beside him. He hoped it was cool, but it was just as warm as the air around him. “Like I said. I’m fine.”

“Of course you’re fine,” said Buck, throwing him a wink as he backed up a little toward the audience section again. “You’re Hawkboy.”

“ _Hawkingbird!_ ” was all the teenager yelled back, lifting a large canvas flap and disappearing out the back of the big top into the dark, heavy, muggy Louisiana night.

_Ugh... it’s like walking into someone’s MOUTH._

He could smell the swamp, which seemed to be all around the fields that would be home to Carson’s Carnival of Travelling Wonders for this one night in late summer. It was never a smell he would get used to, no matter _how_ often the circus swung through New Orleans -- which seemed to be quite often, because _damn_ , people here liked to party. And spend money. When you lived in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, you tended to wonder about these places you saw on TV: was New York really that huge, was Los Angeles really that glamorous? So far, he had _never_ been disappointed with what he had seen. But mind you, he was just grateful to be _seeing_ things. Even now, four years after his parents had died, it still seemed too good to be true.

The fairgrounds were still thriving. The scent of cotton candy and fried onions was thick on the hot, damp air, fighting to combat the stench of swampland in his nostrils. He could hear teenagers laughing and yelling, and somewhere a small child was crying. Clint rolled his eyes; it was probably Danny again, that piece of shit. He liked to steal Ben’s clown mask after he was done with it and terrify any of the little kids whose parents decided that ten o’clock was an acceptable time to keep them up until. Even at a distance, he could see a half-naked Shaniya spinning fire at her post just past the big top to a crowd of enthusiastic onlookers.

He didn’t envy anyone who had to spend their entire night _that_ close to an open flame on a night _this_ hot. Though it explained why Shaniya preferred to sleep out in a small tent rather than in one of the vans or trucks, despite the fact that she always gave them some stoner hippie bullshit about ‘being one with nature’, or some shit -- she was just _way too fucking hot_.

It made sense, and he was considering it. Because he was _not_ looking forward to returning to the old Westfalia tonight, especially because Barney’d come down with some kind of flu or something, and had abandoned his usual post within the circus to spend the entire evening trying to sleep it off in the van. They’d suffered without his help, especially on such a busy night, and it was to be expected -- in fact, Barney had told Clint to wake him up once the circus was open for business, but he’d looked so miserable and sounded so sick when he’d finally passed out after throwing up all night that Clint just didn’t have the heart to rouse his brother. He _needed_ that sleep, and really? Clint didn’t need a fucking _babysitter_ around the carnival anymore. He was almost sixteen years old, and he could already hold his liquor better than a bunch of the adults his brother drank with. So _suck it_.

It was nights like tonight that Clint was glad he had removed the leather vest from his costume. Yeah, it looked badass as fuck, but going topless not only gave him _way_ more range and flexibility, but it kept him cool when he was performing too. There was nothing worse than peeling soaked fabric away from your skin after a show... except maybe having to put it back on the next night when it was still wet and now very cold, because you’d forgotten it in a heap at the end of your bunk instead of hanging it up to dry the night before. His new performance gear consisted of the violet leather pants, which hugged his butt in a way the girls in the audience always seemed to be appreciative of, the gypsy-style boots Savannah’s girlfriend in California had given him a few months ago, his quiver and gloves, and of course his mask -- a beautifully cut and crafted piece of tooled hide fitted to his face by the carnival’s leatherworker. He loved it, felt it gave him a sense of mystery... almost like a superhero.

Standing outside in the stuffy, damp air, Clint stretched his sore muscles out and took a few moments to centre himself. His mind had been... swimming... for the past few hours, and it had been difficult to concentrate on his routine, difficult enough that he’d been forced to swap out Buck for an inanimate target after just his first few tricks, not confident enough in his abilities to want to actually fire arrows at his mentor under such... _duress._

But it was only his fourth heat, and Savannah had told him that they would become easier to deal with as time went by. As for now, he would likely head back to the van and curl up in his brother’s bunk with him, safe and sound until the horrible cramp-like feelings in his gut and raging fires in his groin went away for another few months.

He was solid beneath his pants, the slight bulge of his erection awkward and jagged against his seam. _Fuck..._ He was tempted to rub one out somewhere before he actually returned to the van, but it was far too busy around the carnival grounds to risk it, especially when the swamp was likely already teeming with teenagers and carnies and other misfits sneaking off to have loud sex. And besides, masturbating never did much to relieve the _urge_... so was the risk really worth it? Not exactly.

The van was parked with a bunch of the others toward the back of the grounds, behind the funhouse and the burlesque tent and across the large field where a group of college students had been sitting smoking marijuana for the past few hours and playing what sounded like several guitar-type instruments and some sort of djembe. A couple of kids a few years younger than him bumped into him as they dashed past, but other than that and a couple of strange looks from some of the adults he slunk past (no doubt due to his current _scent_ , ugh), no one paid the young blond any heed.

At least not until he had walked around the back of the funhouse itself to hop the waist-high split rail fence that separated the two fields, when he heard the brief, hushed whisper of quiet talking behind him and turned to realize there were two older boys on his tail. If he had some sort of weird, creepy, spider-like sense of premonition whenever something bad was about to happen, it would’ve been tingling right about then.

“Hey man, wait! S’cool!” the smaller one of them yelled as his pace picked up, bringing him closer to the split-rail fence. “We jus’ wanted to tell ya we thought yer show kicked _ass_ , bro!”

Clint paused at the fence, putting one hand on the rough wood, and glanced back over his shoulder. The one who had spoken -- a tall, dark-haired guy with a generous stippling of stubble who was probably in his early twenties -- sounded like he had been drinking. A _lot_. Planting one boot on the lowest rail of the fence, so that he could vault over it if he needed to, he decided that addressing them was probably safer than ignoring them. If they wanted trouble, they weren’t going to just give up on him, especially as he got further from the carnival.

The knife he kept strapped to the inside of his right boot for self-defence pressed insistently against his shin, as if reminding him that it was there. Given a trigger, he could plant it squarely between the man’s eyes and down him before either of them even realized he had moved.

“Yeah?” he called back, trying to keep his voice steady as he hauled himself up to sit on the top rail, swinging his quiver around into his lap to cover up his erection. He was pretty sure both men would be able to smell it on him, though... the heat. His cheeks darkened a little in embarrassment.

“Thanks, man.” He forced a crooked smile, trying to pretend he wasn’t almost doubled-over in discomfort and painful arousal. The one closest to him, the brunet, grinned wildly.

“So what’s a sweet lil’ Omega like you doin’ without his Alpha around, huh?” he asked, the clear challenge in his voice, the hint of _Alpha_ that called to Clint to submit and surrender. Against the tight leather, his already-stiff cock throbbed hard in response, and his eyes glazed over as they widened. He… he _knew_ that tone, and he _knew_ that feeling deep inside of him. The desire -- no, the _need_ to do what he was told. His thighs were so taut they hurt against the splintered wooden crossbar of the fence, and as much as he was screaming at himself to vault over the fence and _run_ , he was completely frozen.

His friend, a ratty-looking blond thing with an unfortunate rash on his face, barked out a laugh and stepped forward, in front of the Alpha.

“We’d like ta show you how much we ‘preciated the show there, _Hawkingbird_ ,” he drawled out the name like it was the punchline to a joke, and despite his growing fear at that moment, a part of his subconscious glowered to itself. It was a _great_ fucking name. Much better than _Hawkboy_.

“Well,” the young archer said matter-of-factly, mostly to buy himself time while he actually thought of something to follow that announcement up with, but it was hard to think with two sets of opposing instincts arguing so loudly and viciously in his head. His fingers gripped his quiver tightly for some sort of comfort.

“He hates the circus. So he meets me here. _Outside_. Every night.” It was a weak lie, he knew. He was a fucking _terrible_ liar, and always had been. If he could change just _one_ thing about himself, other than his Designation, it would be to learn to lie better. Well enough that _no one_ would _ever_ be able to tell.

The two amigos exchanged glances and then grinned at him at the same time.

“Yeah? What’s his name?” They grew closer to him, the Alpha closing his eyes as he sniffed at the sweet scent of an Omega in heat that managed to pierce the thick stench of the swamp. The wind picked up a little, stirring and rustling the trees close by and sending ripples across the dead, uncut grass. The undeniable, strong, biting smell of an _Alpha_ hit him with the force of a freight train, confirming his fears, and his mouth dropped open, blood ran cold, hands went numb, along with all of those other horrifying things that happen to your body when it starts to produce mass amounts of adrenaline to flee. Or fight.

_Get out. Get out, get out, get out._

The Alpha seemed to sense Clint’s sudden realization and was ready to act as soon as the smaller male moved to swing his legs over the top of the fence. He licked his lips with a wicked grin and then lunged for Omega with a snarl, seizing the shirtless boy around the waist and wrenching him down off the fence _hard_ , throwing him in a heap at his feet as his friend sidled in to block his escape via running back to the Carnival.

Stunned by rushing blow of the ground coming up to meet his back, which forced the air out of his lungs and left him gasping, it took Clint a few seconds to actually _react_. His quiver was underneath him and one of his boots had been knocked off as his legs were dragged back over the fence, but he didn’t care about his belongings anymore. His loins were burning and his biceps were shaking as he tried to roll forward onto his knees, the position he was in only reinforcing his mental and genetic urge to _present_.

The Alpha laughed, and reached down to grab Clint by the back of the neck, knee going to Clint’s ribs to make sure he was still stunned before jerking him over onto his stomach. His friend, who scented as a strong Beta now that he was closer, followed suit, tugging at Clint’s pants, hand reaching around under him to snatch and grab at the button as the Alpha continued to pin him by the back of his thin neck.

“Lemme get him for you, Brill, an’ you can get a leg o’r him.”

The instant Clint was able to inhale a half-decent breath, he was screaming his brother’s name. He didn’t care who heard him, or who came to help -- he didn’t care who found him like this. All he could think about was how desperately he wished he had accepted Buck’s offer to walk him back to the parking lot.

“ _BARNEY!!!_ ” he was shrieking again and again, as he squirmed a hand down beneath himself to try and pry away the fingers that were fumbling his pants open, but the pressure and movement against the overly-sensitized area of his body was too much for such a young Omega, and despite his predicament all he could do was press his palm as hard as he could into his groin to try and relieve some of the pressure. His thighs subconsciously parted and his ass lifted a fraction of an inch, and he whimpered pathetically before crying out for his older brother again, praying that the sound wouldn’t be lost on the noise pollution of the carnival and its rowdy patrons.

“Shut the _fuck_ up and _present_ ,” Brill hissed, using the full force of his Alpha voice and intensity on the young Omega. Clint shuddered and flinched as every word spoken in that brutally commanding low tenor forced itself into his head and resonated in mind-numbing echoes that seemed to take away any level of free will he had, at least for the moment. His raw throat finally stopped vibrating as he obediently fell silent, his rear end lifting a reluctant few inches as he buried his face in his forearms and trembled fearfully on the ground.

His friend laughed, getting the button of his pants undone and yanking Clint’s hand roughly out of the way so that he could unzip them. The loss of pressure against his groin from both his hand _and_ the tight leather pants drew a high-pitched, needy, whimpering moan from the Omega, who was helpless in the presence of the more dominant men to do little more than kneel there and quiver.

No one had used their Alpha voice on him in… years. Fuck, Barney would _literally kill_ anybody who even _joked_ about it, especially after how their father had used to do it anytime he wanted Clint to behave, or do his chores, or hell, anytime he just wanted to exert his own manliness over one of his sons and feel powerful. Clint could still remember the way it rendered every muscle in his body completely useless, left him quiet and shaky and submissive. And he _hated_ it.

Even moreso now than ever before.

“Almost there. Lookit ‘im. Primed n’ ready for ya,” the Beta snickered. Clint shook his head desperately, fully aware that his cheeks were soaked with tears and his breaths were coming out rapid and shallow, his lower back arching a little more instinctively.

“Please…” He resorted to begging. He _never_ resorted to begging for _anything_ , purely as a matter of pride, even when Barney held his bowstring high above his head as a joke when he was late getting ready for his performance. But at this point, he was willing to do anything.

“P-please… I, I have an Alpha, I do, I _swear_ , it’s my brother… _please_...”

“Ha! Y’ _brother_ ? Where’s he at now, boy? Out rutting some young pretty thing and gone left you t’ us. Finders _keepers_ ,” the Alpha hissed, before lowering his face to nuzzle along the side of Clint’s, the rough stubble of his chin sending shivers all through the Omega’s body as he fought the urge to bare his throat without much success. His neck craned away from the older man, offering himself in full submission, even as a tiny sob fell from his mouth.

The Beta scratched and tore at Clint’s skin, yanking his pants down over his ass and hips before peeling them slowly down his thighs. As more and more of his lower body was exposed to the hot, sticky air, Clint squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to focus on this… or what this _meant_ for him.

What if they Bonded him? Took him home? What if they _took him_ from the carnival? What if he never saw his friends again, Penny or Danny or Buck, or _Barney_ …

Another sob shook his chest and his fingers dug deeper into the hard soil, dirt wedging itself under his nails as he clung to the ground for purchase.

The Alpha let out a low, aroused moan and licked at the salty-sweet skin of Clint’s neck, before his teeth grazed the pulse point once, causing the smaller body against his own to jerk violently in response. The Beta ripped Clint’s pants down to his ankles and grabbed onto them, holding them tight against the grass.

“I got ‘im, Brill,” the older blond nearly moaned, far _far_ too excited by what they were about to do, so much so that a part of Clint had to realize that this probably wasn’t the first time they had done this... “C’mon, bro, take ‘im... ‘fore he sprays himself e’rywhere.”

As the body of the Alpha shifted itself, and his hearing aid picked up on the purring sound of a zipper being drawn down, Clint buried his face in his forearms and gave one, last, _desperate_ plea for mercy.

“I, I don’t… I don’t… I...j-just... please don’t… p-please don’t _BOND_ with me _, PLEASE_ …!”

Both men exchanged glances and then _laughed_ , a sound of cruel amusement that chilled the young carnie to his very core, and he wished he had just bitten down on his forearm and said _nothing_. He felt the sticky air rush against his now very naked undercarriage as Brill sank to his knees behind him, nudging the Beta out of his way. Clint watched without watching out of the corner of his eye as the older, scruffier blond sat back and unzipped his own pants, gracelessly pulling himself out into his hand so that he was fully ready to enjoy the show.

What happened next… was completely unexpected. By all three of them.

At first, Clint assumed that the unimaginably loud, chaotic, _dominant_ Alpha roar that seemed to echo from one end of the bayou all the way to the other originated deep within the chest cavity of his would-be rapist. However, the way his tense, stressed body immediately and subconsciously relaxed by at least thirty per cent told him something very different… that it was an Alpha roar he was _comforted_ to hear.

_Bar… Barney…?_

The Beta was the first to scream; he was halfway to his feet when the sharp, pointed arrow was flung with enough strength and accuracy to pierce his chest a good inch or two, knocking him back down to the ground. Not seconds after, the Alpha’s heat and weight were gone from behind him, and the sound of rage and growling and flesh on flesh as the two men wrestled with one another punctuated the background carnival din. Clint remained in a small ball on the floor, trembling and burying his face in his arms, until Barney’s snarl of triumph heralded the end of the fight.

“ _\-- EVER -- TOUCH -- MY -- BROTHER -- AGAIN --_ ” he was bellowing, punctuating each word by driving the much smaller Alpha’s skull with every single ounce of his strength into the middle beam of the wooden split-rail fence. Again, and again, and again. “ _\-- I -- WILL -- FUCKING -- FIND YOU -- AND -- KILL -- YOU -- YOU -- PIECE -- OF --_ ”

“ _BARTON!_ ”

Both teenage brothers jerked their heads up sharply at the dominant, though not Alpha, bark that pierced the loud monotony of Barney’s assault. Buck Chisholm, otherwise known around the circus as Trick Shot, had stumbled upon the fray after thinking twice about letting his Omega protege walk back to the parking lot alone, and was now standing with his hands balled up into tight fists, staring in shock and awe at the sticky, bloodied mess the young Alpha had made of both the wooden beam and the would-be rapist’s face.

“Barton… what the _fuck_ is going on!?”

The bulky redhead was breathing hard, spitting through his teeth and shimmering with sweat as he panted breathlessly in the moonlight. He was wearing nothing but a pair of torn boxer shorts and one grey sock, not even shoes on his feet, clearly having sprinted here right from his bunk upon being awoken by…

“Clint was screamin’,” the Alpha snarled, still holding the dead man’s skull in one fist by the hair. There was no sign of the Beta; he must have scarpered the instant his Alpha was attacked by the raging carny.

“I, I ran out here… fuckers was… fuckers was gonna _rape_ ‘im, Buck, they was gonna fuckin’--!”

“ _All right!_ ” growled Buck, unable to deal with anymore detail than that. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and he looked as if he were trying to shrug off the internal desire to rip the body out of the youngster’s hands and tear it apart himself.

“Take ‘im ta bed. And wait in the van, ‘kay? _DON’T_ fuckin’ _MOVE_.” Buck stuck a thick, calloused finger in the redhead’s face, his lips peeled back into a snarl. “I’m gonna deal with the body, then I’ll come back an’ we can chat. Comprende?”

Barney didn’t need to be told twice. His large, bare arms were already wrapping tightly around his little brother’s slight frame, lifting him up into a protective embrace as if he weighed little more than paper. To Clint, the world stood still -- effectively paralyzed in the warm, comforting, familiar arms of his family Alpha.

“Piss on ‘im for me,” the eldest Barton brother spat as he moved past Buck toward the fence. The only thing Clint remembers to this today was the look of absolute _torment_ on Buck’s face, of _hate_ and _rage_ , as the huge Beta looked down at his broken protege with glassy brown eyes.

“Oh, don’t you fuckin’ worry,” he snarled in return, finally tearing his gaze from Clint to lock eyes with the older brother. “I’ll make sure this septic _shitbag_ gets the funeral ‘e deserves.”

*

About six months ago, when Penny the trapeze girl had gone into her first heat and her Alpha bunk-mate had started choking on the extremely… _exciting_ aroma of the new hormones, Clint had given up his nest in the top bunk of the old Westfalia so that she would have a new place to lay her head at night. Considering Clint spent eight out of ten nights cuddled into the lower bunk with Barney anyway for warmth, it wasn’t too much of a sacrifice for the younger Barton to make to give up a little bit of personal space for the sake of his friends’ safety. It was how the carnival functioned -- as one great big insane fucked up family, always working together to look out for one another and ensure that everyone was able to continue on. What a family _should_ be.

That being said, the lower bunk was overly familiar to him as he was lowered into the tangled mess of old blankets. The overpoweringly musky scent of the old Iowa _Hawkeyes_ throw Barney’d had since he was seven, the familiar rough-but-soft texture of the fleece comforter Savannah had given him last winter when he’d complained about feeling the cold. It was dark and warm and sweaty, and smelled like home, and despite the fact that it was over a hundred degrees outside, Clint burrowed his way into the first layer of blankets as if assuming they would offer him some sort of protection against predators in the night.

Barney’s weight sank down onto the edge of the mattress and he yanked his little brother closer to him. The small blond, sensing the Alpha’s presence, quickly wriggled against him, locking his arm over Barney’s waist and burying his face in his stomach. A good two or three minutes of silence passed before anyone disturbed it.

“Hey… Clint? You… you doin’ okay?”

“ _Mfffff._ ”

Barney sighed heavily, shaking his head before turning it to peer out through the thin, moth-eaten, 70’s-orange curtains at the huge, empty Louisiana sky. Several emotions threaded their way into the blank mask he had forced onto his face in order to remain strong for Clint -- regret, guilt, shame. He grit his teeth and avoided looking at the smaller Barton for a while longer.

“Look, kiddo, I… this was… this was all my fault.” The thick fingers of one hand slid their way into the Omega’s sandy blond hair possessively. “I should never leave you alone -- _EVER_. There’s too many… _fucked up_ people in this world, people like dad.”

“Guys? Is everythin’ okay…?”

Barney snapped his head up, a pair of blue eyes and twin blonde braids hanging down from the bunk above where Penny had likely been starting to fall asleep by the time her bunkmates had returned to the van. It really creeped him out how much she was able to sneak about without either of them even knowing she was there.

“... Y’know what, Pen’, this is good, actually. ‘Cuz you _both_ gotta hear this.”

The acrobat pulled a face at him upside-down. “Dude, seriously... what the _fuck_ happened to Clint? You guys are freakin’ me out.”

Both of Barney’s lungs completely emptied out in another exhausted exhale, and he hung his head against his chest as he continued to cradle his brother protectively against his stomach and hip. Clint was practically catatonic; while his blue eyes were wide and staring straight ahead, it wasn’t entirely obvious whether or not there was any conscious brain activity happening behind them.

“Listen t’ me, ‘kay? ‘Cuz you guys are both Omegas… and Penny, you’re from Texas, you know what it’s like. You ain’t got _any_ rights in this world, ya hear me? You got _no_ rights. _None_. ‘Cuz you were born to be someone’s _bitch_ , you got that?”

“Hey, go fuck yourself, buddy,” the blonde girl shot back, sounding quite hurt by what the boy she looked up to as a replacement older brother was saying about her and Clint. “I ain’t gonna be no one’s bitch.”

“No, you’re right. You _ain’t_.” Barney glared at her with pointed admiration and determination in his eyes, tightening his grip on his little brother. “Because you guys’re _fighters_ , you an’ Clint both. But that ain’t gonna help either one’a ya when an Alpha’s got your scent an’ gives you an order.”

He shifted his weight, peering down at his brother and lifting his chin. “Clint. Clint, you listenin’ to me? Clint, you fuckin’ listen to me right now, an’ if you only learn one thing from me by the time I’m dead, you make sure it’s this, all right!?”

And somewhere, through the haze of shock and the mind-numbing fog that had found a way to disconnect his brain from his body, the young archer’s consciousness was able to make out the shape of his brother’s face, the sound of his voice, and the desperate shaky grip within which he was held.

“All Alphas are the same, Clint. ‘Kay? Just like our old man. You remember the way dad used ta use his Alpha voice on ya, fuck you up? Get ya all fucked up, an’ shit? Well, I promised you I wouldn’t _ever_ do that ta you unless I gotta, but you know what, Clint, Penny? Other Alphas, they ain’t all as good as me. They ain’t all as _nice_. They ain’t all your brother and they ain’t all gonna be able to control ‘emselves around you, when you’re hot an’ frisky an’ smell like a fuckin’ treat, okay?

“They’ll jump ya in the street. They’ll fuckin’ follow ya home and mess ya up. They’ll tell ya you can trust ‘em, act like they’re your friend, an’ then they’ll suddenly start actin’ like they ain’t ever heard the word ‘stop’ before, an’ all that friend shit’s gonna fly right out the fuckin’ window.

“An’ you ain’t gonna be able to do _shit_ to protect yourself. Cops? They ain’t gonna give a crap. They ain’t gonna give a flyin’ _fuck_ that some Omega slut got what was comin’ to ‘em, ‘cuz that’s how they’re gonna see you.

“So don’t you _ever_ fucking forget that. Okay? When it comes to Alphas, no matter _who_ they are, you can’t ever trust ‘em. _EVER_.  
  
“No matter what, okay? No matter...  _what_.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so very sorry for the wait!!! *hugs and hearts and kisses!* We promise you much sexytimes soon as an apology. ;)  
> ~ Miin & Arrow

_ Manhattan, NY  
_ __ Present Day  
  


The hours were an exercise in extreme restraint for Phil. A few times he’d gotten up to grab a drink of water, pace a little as Clint had talked openly and honestly (after a little coercion, of course), listening to the man spill out the… the  _ poison _ of his past. He’d kept his anger in check, his own instincts telling him to hunt down whoever had hurt the Omega, whomever had threatened him… Phil had a very strong sense of right and  _ wrong _ , and the idea of forcing an unwilling Omega  _ sickened  _ him.

Still, the scent of Clint’s heat was getting stronger, pushing his own body into a sort of proto-rut, making it more and more difficult to concentrate fully on what the younger man was saying as the hours ground by and his now very stiff, very  _ ready _ cock ground against the fabric of his suit slacks.

“Are you hungry?” he finally asked, and pulled a protein bar out of his inside jacket pocket, offering it to the other man. Clint was curled in a fetal position on his side on the mattress beside him, breathing slowly and silently in a controlled manner probably to keep himself from giving in to what he was desperately craving at this time. “I… wish you’d been comfortable talking to me sooner, but I can see why… you haven’t wanted to.”

The blond cracked one eye open, studying the protein bar as if he legitimately couldn’t tell if he wanted it or not. Or even if he was hungry at all, despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten in almost a day. After a while, he groaned and shook his head at it, closing his eye.

“Yeah, well... I wanted ta, but... but every time, I just... it... Barney’s words came back ta me.” A shudder rippled through his body and his muscles contracted, squeezing his body into an even tighter ball.

“I couldn’ lose my job, Phil... I couldn’, it’s the only...” His voice trailed off, but Phil knew him well enough by now to finish his sentence for him:  _ It’s the only thing keeping me going. _

With a sigh Phil sat down next to him on the mattress, putting a hand on his lower back and stroking the tense muscles he found there with a smooth, slow touch.

“This isn’t… you are too valuable an agent, a team member, to lose over something like this. We’ll work around it, I can guarantee you that, but you need to be open with me.” He couldn’t help it as his thumb ran along the back of Clint’s neck, and Phil shuddered at the contact with his skin. He was hungry for him, and getting slightly impatient. There was only so much even a highly-trained Alpha would put up with, when an Omega was in full heat and refused to submit and present. Phil’s hormones were racing, demanding of him to pin Clint down and bite the back of his neck and  _ show _ him his place.

And he wasn’t the only one. As Phil’s calloused thumb teased the hairs on the back of his neck they stood on end, and a violent tremor shot all the way through Clint’s entire body. His jaw trembled as he whimpered and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head as his breath hitched. That deliciously curved back Phil had been stroking not minutes ago arched up and his head lolled deeply over to one side, a clear invitation to the Alpha, whether it was intentional and willing... or not.

“Clint…” Phil cleared his throat and swallowed hard, to keep his own emotions and desires under control. “I need you go give me a colour.” He couldn’t help how husky his voice had become, his eyes flittering down Clint’s body. He wanted to  _ do _ things to the man.

“ _ Green _ .” The word was just as much of a surprise to Phil as it was to Clint, as it came spewing out of the archer’s mouth, muffled by the mattress underneath him in the position he had twisted his head into in order to bare as much of his throat to his handler as humanly possible. “G-green, I --  _ fuck _ \--”

A rolling shiver ran through Phil’s body and he bent immediately, rushing in on Clint’s space, trying not to but needing to be close to him. The physically stronger man was rendered powerless as Phil kissed and licked at Clint’s exposed neck, the ministrations of his experienced tongue and teeth awakening subconscious instincts within the Avenger that he had spent years learning to suppress.

Such as the instinct to submit.  _ Fully. _

“Colour, Barton,  _ colour _ ,” he breathed out heavily, and then made a low, ominous noise in his throat as he sank his teeth down into the skin a few millimeters, drawing a strangled cry from the blond who was writhing against the mattress beneath him. He’d wanted this, wanted  _ Clint _ , for far too damn long, and now that he had him Phil was  _ not _ going to let him go.

Even if Clint said  _ red _ ... Phil would be there, near, taunting, tempting, the Omega, until he hopefully changed his mind. The two of them were too far gone at this point, and he knew that -- for the sake of their health, if nothing else -- there was no going back from here. Even if he had to wait  _ days _ for Clint to be ready for him, or hell, even if Clint wanted  _ someone else _ to help him... there was no going back. He just refused to do anything until he had Hawkeye’s  _ complete  _ consent.

Time seemed to stand still as Clint wheezed and panted against the mattress, his teeth gripping his lower lip tight enough to almost draw blood. Watching him, all Phil could think about that that moment was how much he wished it was his  _ own _ teeth pinching that lip, but maybe a little tighter...

“I...” Clint was struggling again internally -- Phil knew him well enough to recognize the signs. The furrowed brow, the clenched fists, the glazed-over eyes whipping back and forth without focus. He gave another broken whimper, before his grey-blue eyes lifted to lock with his handler’s, asking -- no,  _ begging _ for something he needed.

“Ph-Phil, I... we...” He swallowed, looking small and weak in a way that Coulson had never seen him look small and weak before. He was vulnerable,  _ terrified...  _ and he had maybe seconds left before he lost all control. And before that happened, he had to use the tiny, tiny threads of sanity he still had ahold of to reaffirm --

“You promise me...?” His eyes continued to plead with him, even as his head bent over, offering his throat entirely to the older agent. “You... I can, I can stay here... here, at S.H.I.E.L.D., as me...?”

“Nothing will change,” Phil said, voice dry and cracking. “You are the very best of us, and… this… will only... make it  _ easier _ for you.” He took slow, solid breaths, thumb sliding along Clint’s exposed neck, touching where his pulse beat frantically beneath the hot, damp skin.

“No matter what. You’re ours.” The thought of losing Clint, in any fashion, made illogical rage swell inside of him. Nothing could make him turn on the younger man, and the thought that Clint would even consider that a possibility... “I’ve known you, been by your side, for years, Clint. This is just sex -- nothing more, nothing less than that. Please... just _ trust  _ me. Can you do that?”

He slid three fingers through Clint’s hair, over the side of his head, and cupped his jaw tenderly. The gentle touch seemed to be enough to coax the archer’s taut, wired muscles into a brief state of relaxation, his eyes fluttering half-closed, and as Phil’s fingers continued to smooth their way through his hair, massaging the weak and sensitive spot at the back of his jaw behind his ear. It was usually the point where Clint would pull away, say something about not dipping his pen in the company ink, despite how many times he and Natasha -- who was openly and  _ actually _ a Beta, as far as Phil knew, rather than an Omega  _ pretending _ to be a Beta like Clint -- had gone to town. Now, he finally understood why.

It only took Clint a few seconds to decide -- or to finally lose control, one of the two -- but to Phil Coulson, it felt like an era. The blond man twisted beneath him, the thick muscles in his arms trembling as he rolled himself onto his back, trying his best to sit up despite the fact that his body’s motions were almost completely out of his own control and his joints kept locking and buckling without his consent. His hand gripped Phil’s shoulder tightly, helping him get his leg around so that he was sitting so close to the older agent that he was practically in his lap.

“I, I trust you, man...” he breathed out, wordless. His hands were weak and his fingers quivered as they reached out anxiously for the lapels of Phil’s suit jacket, which he had determinedly kept on despite his internal body temperature rising for the  _ entirety _ of his discussion with his agent. Removing items of clothing could’ve sent the wrong signals and broken the tentative, fragile, crystalline trust Clint was daring to put in him, and -- you know what,  _ fuck _ it, he could think about that later, because Clint was now sliding his shaky hands beneath the suit jacket, mouthing the word  _ green _ over and over again as he leaned forward and his lips eagerly searched for the other man’s in what could easily be his last dominant action of the afternoon.

Phil wouldn’t make him wait, his heart beating so hard it felt it would escape his throat. He would never make Clint wait for anything again. The hormones were coursing through him, making him eager to defend Clint, provide for him, give him what he needed… he kissed Clint softly at first, then hard, hands trembling a little as they wrapped around Clint’s shoulders in both a possessive and protective manner.

“What do you need, Clint,” he murmured, kissing across Clint’s jaw, biting a little right below his ear, just a teasing bite, not a bonding bite. He nuzzled there, fingers curling in the neckline of Clint’s shirt. “Can I take this off? Let’s get you more comfortable.”

The agent’s head nodded quickly against his own, his hands fumbling with the bottom hem, fighting to pull it up over his head. Phil released the blond from his tight embrace and dropped his own, more coordinated digits to assist in the declothing effort, helping him strip the absolutely saturated tee up the length of his strong body, revealing the taut, shaking abs and pecs beneath that were also dripping with generous amounts of sweat. His nipples were painfully hard, grateful to be freed from beneath the shirt. He squeezed his thighs together with an impatient moan and slid his arms around Coulson’s midsection, trying his best to tug his handler as close to himself as he could.

“Please…” he was murmuring, his face burying itself in Coulson’s jacket lapel as he panted breathlessly and more than willingly exposed his throat again. “Green,  _ please _ …”

It was hard to keep control of his urges, seeing the raw, muscled inches of Clint’s body on display, and he bent to mouth at the neck that was bared to him. Clint’s scent was intoxicating, and Coulson loved it, wanted to smell like the archer for  _ days _ , and not care who knew. He stroked at the back of Clint’s head and murmured soft, soothing noises.

“Pants next,” he said, brushing his fingers along the cut muscles of Clint’s hip. His agent responded with a quick nod again, silent aside from his own breathy pants and sounds of effort as he lay out on his back on the mattress and hastily unzipped his fly. With Phil’s help, he kicked and squirmed his way out of his jeans, his lilac boxers also soaked through with both sweat and, no doubt, some precum. He didn’t seem to have the energy to sit up again, his hands grabbing at Coulson’s forearms, trying to yank the older man down on top of him without even realizing that the Alpha would no doubt need to at least undress a  _ little _ before they could properly continue.

“Still an agent... right…?” he gasped out, desperate for confirmation despite the fact that he was already wriggling his way out of his boxer shorts. 

“The best agent I have,” said Phil, his hungry eyes running all over Clint’s body as the larger but more submissive man lay fidgeting on the mattress. Phil sat back on his haunches and loosened his tie, pulling it over his head before shrugging off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt slowly. Now that the imminent danger had passed, a little of his playful nature had returned to him, as much as dared to, and he was… all of a sudden not in such a hurry. Clint’s full and total consent pending, they would no doubt be down there for days. Phil had cleared his own schedule in advance just in case, and would  _ not _ be disturbed… at least not unless aliens decided to descend upon New York City, or something equally as unlikely. He still didn’t want to wrinkle his _ best  _ shirt. “The agent I am the most proud of.”

Phil shivered a little as he pulled his shirt off with a flick and folded it neatly. He laid the tie down on top of it, and then pulled the impatient Avenger up away from the mattress and against him, chest to chest, to feel his hot skin on his own. In unison, the two men moaned, a dual-layered sound that harmonized Coulson’s thick low tenor with Clint’s weak high baritone. The Omega panted against him as he breathed in and out the Alpha’s full scent for the first time, still uncharacteristically silent. The fingers of one shaky hand tightly gripped the belt loops of Coulson’s slacks, while the other tentatively explored the soft hair that swirled its way sparsely across Phil’s chest. 

“Fuck…” he breathed against him, before wedging his chin over Phil’s shoulder and crushing their bodies even tighter together, as if hoping Phil would just absorb him or something via osmosis. His lips lightly -- anxiously -- pecked at his handler’s shoulder and neck, kissing his way back and forth as he ground his hips against the Alpha’s, reminding him how desperate he was. 

“Fuck, this is… this is  _ so _ fucking green right now, you… you have no  _ fucking _ clue…”

Phil had to privately smile at the adoration and affection the Omega was showering him with, and he happily let the man kiss and move against him as long as it was  _ green _ .

“As green as what I caught you smoking on the roof last week?” Phil asked, his voice no more than a low purr, as he reached down between them to flick the button undone on his suit slacks. He nodded to the padded mattress and -- as his hands slid soothingly, encouragingly, down the Omega’s sides before patting him lightly on the thigh -- gave the one command that Clint had always been terrified of hearing again. 

“ _ Present _ , please.”

*

The Omega’s eyes were glassed over darkly as he burrowed himself into Phil’s warm body, breathing in and out the musky, spicy,  _ hot _ scent of  _ Alpha _ … a scent that, for the first time in his entire life, Clint was comfortable being smothered and suffocated by. It was  _ intoxicating _ , no different to the drug his handler had just wise-cracked about, which plucked him out of reality entirely and lifted him into what could only be described as an alternate plane of existence. 

His world  _ spun _ like a  _ tornado _ , blasting away his anxiety and whipping up a storm of deep want and  _ need _ somewhere within him. Only this time, there was something that called upon his inner strength and willpower to defend his urge to  _ fuck _ , to fuck  _ hard _ and  _ heavy _ without shame or embarrassment, until the ache in his gut and the fire in his loins were nothing but a hazy memory. 

That something was Phil Coulson.

Barney’s words were slowly fading -- be it temporary or permanent, he had no idea -- and the scratched up record that used to continuously play them was replaced with one of Phil’s voice, of Phil’s words. Permission. Valuable.  _ Ours _ … The fact that the family he had built for himself,  _ chosen _ for himself, at S.H.I.E.L.D. and within the Avengers could replace the one he was so lovingly accepted into at the Carnival was never something that had crossed the abuse victim’s mind in the past, even though now it seemed so, so obvious to him.

_ Of course they… they won’t hurt me. Of… of COURSE they won’t. _

Phil’s command, though lacking his Alpha tone, pulled him from his thoughts and back to the cell he had spent the past day-and-a-half trapped within, which was now hot and sticky and sweaty all around him despite the air conditioning Coulson had switched on, no doubt in an effort to keep him cool and comfortable. The more he thought about it, the more this man had done  _ everything _ in his power -- and even  _ out _ of his power, at the risk of being discovered -- to protect him, to keep him safe. He had never found any hands more secure than these to put himself into.

The command caused him to draw his head back, tearing his lips from the salty sweet skin, and his blue eyes met the other man’s with renewed nerves, which no doubt the Alpha would recognize, given how well he knew Clint. The archer swallowed, his hips rolling rhythmically against Phil’s without him even noticing as he breathed shallowly to himself for a minute, trying to think clearly enough through the fog to phrase a sentence properly. And in the  _ least _ lame way that he could.

“I, uh… so, um…” He swallowed dryly again, his tongue sticking to the bottom of his mouth. “Yanno all those… those rumours about what a huge slut I am…? Like, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s own company-wide pushbike bike, an’ all that…?” 

Phil raised an eyebrow, standing and pulling off his suit slacks casually, as if he wasn’t listening as diligently as he was to what Clint was saying.

“Mm, yes. A rumour I was never interested in listening to. You know I do not listen to such unprovable things as  _ rumours _ , Clint,” although that was slightly a lie. Phil enjoyed a good bit of gossip. He folded his trousers and put them next to his shirt, leaving him in light gray boxers with white pin-stripes, not the Captain America’s shield boxers he supposedly always wore under his suit, if the watercooler chat was to be taken in any way seriously.

“Phil, if you  _ actually _ take the futzing time to  _ fold _ your goddamn boxers while I’m sittin’ here  _ dyin’ _ , I swear to futzing Olaf or Odin or whatever the hell Thor’s old man is called, I will  _ end you _ right here.” It came out as a single run-off breath, the archer still struggling to keep his lust somewhat under control as his hands clawed at his own thighs, trying to keep from palming himself through his boxers. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes.

“And besides, it’s kinda true. Well… with, yanno. Women, anyway.” He opened his glassy eyes and peered up awkwardly at his friend, hoping that he understood him, because he didn’t have the strength to just admit to it out loud  _ or _ the patience to try and figure out a way to do so.

Phil smirked a little at that and then pointed at the mattress again.

“I fail to see you presenting, Omega,” and despite the sternness of the words, there was a teasing kindness in the older man’s voice as he dropped out of his boxers, letting them puddle on the floor messily, much to Clint’s surprise. He looked down at the fabric, which Clint was grateful for, because it meant he wouldn’t catch his agent staring at the hard, generous length that protruded proudly from his groin area. 

_ God… damn. That’s a LOTTA penis. _

“Are you happy now? Will you  _ present, Omega? _ ” There was a strong hint of Alpha command in his voice, and he stalked back towards the mattress, heat in his expression. The tone of voice caused all of Clint’s muscles to spasm a little, not quite firm enough to  _ force _ him into the correct position, but enough to  _ encourage _ . Which was appreciated, because Clint was now starting to feel extremely nervous again, despite a strange, unfamiliar, internal  _ longing _ for something  _ inside of him _ , which was just… bizarre, really. Especially when he had  _ no idea whatsoever _ what the thing he wanted so badly was supposed to feel like.

“Yeah, yeah, just… just be  _ kind _ to my ass, yeah…?” he was saying, even as he got his knees underneath him, pausing for just a moment before committing to the position he had been forced into almost two decades ago.  _ It’s Coulson _ , he reminded himself, as a violent and vivid flashback knocked his consciousness from one side of his head to the other, trying to frighten him out of what was about to happen. The mattress was thin but squishy beneath his knees, and as his fingers clawed their way into the foam, nails threatening to bend back and break under the stress with which the archer clung to the bedding.  _ It’s Coulson, and this… this is right. This is what’s SUPPOSED to happen. It’s… it’s supposed to be GOOD like this.  _

“‘Cuz I know I’m s’posed to be like, self-lubing? But it’s still my ass, yanno? And it’s a super popular ass, and I really don’t wanna fuck it up, or…”

Phil put a warm, gentle hand on Clint’s lower back, thumb stroking the tense muscles.

“It’s your body. It knows what to do, even if your brain is uncertain,” he said soothingly, sounding pleased at the way Clint so easily sunk into the proper position. “You are beautiful, and your trust is a gift that I will treasure for all my days.” 

He moved down between Clint’s parted legs, hands stroking over his hips, clasping him gently. “Colour, Clint?” 

“Uhhhhhm… what… what colour would you get if you crossed amber with green? Like… like a weird gross yellow colour?”

“Do you need me to stop?”

“N-no… no, I… I wanna keep goin’, okay…?” He was certain of it, and not because of his raging hormones or basic Omega instinct, but because it was Phil, and goddamn, he had  _ wanted this _ for so fucking long… 

Clint’s body tensed and relaxed, his stomach tight beneath Phil’s wandering free hand. His nails teased over the muscles, in and out of the valleys between his abs, and Clint’s breathing became ragged as he felt Phil’s body against the back of his own.

“Fuck…” he hissed out, trembling. His joints locked up. Phil’s hand was firm against his stomach, holding him in place, comforting and secure. He kissed the back of Clint’s neck.

“Colour, Clint. Any colour.”

“I -- _ r-red! _ ”

*

It was immediate, like hitting the designated, yellow-striped emergency button. Phil ground to a halt like a well-oiled machine; one hand remained on Clint’s stomach but the other released its lukewarm grip on his solid cock, and he pulled away from his back to give him some space. The hand on his stomach massaged the tense muscles; he didn’t want to withdraw everything all at once, for the fear that it might cause a reflex reaction of a colour call that Clint didn’t mean but made to return some of the lost contact. 

As Clint remained in the presenting position, Phil knelt beside him, slowly moving his hand around from his abs to his lower back. He stroked his ribcage in a slow, soothing manner, pressing his shoulder against the other man’s.

“Clint…? Is everything okay?”

The older man’s voice was laced with concern, fear, tension… he had crossed a line, or something had snapped within his little bird’s mind, and although he was screaming internally at the prospect of spending another four-plus hours with a rock-hard erection grinding against the zipper of his suit slacks was akin to some of the worst torture he’d ever had to endure…

… He had made a  _ promise _ . In locking Clint up, in letting him come down off of his suppressants, Phil had initiated a very important, very intimate, very  _ special _ trust between an agent and his handler, in which the agent placed his very life in his handler’s hands, and if the handler was ever concerned that the agent’s life was endangered in any way, he could make judgement decisions that overrode the agent’s own consent. 

Quite rightfully, by law and by the documentation signed by both he and Agent Clinton Francis Barton, if at any point he believed Clint was harming himself physically or emotionally by abstaining from sexual intercourse, he could take him and end it right there. Clint knew that, was aware of it at the time it was signed, and had fully agreed to it.

But there were some things in life that even signed consent forms and waiver documents couldn’t override. And if Clint said red -- if Clint  _ always _ said red -- Phil would always,  _ always _ allow him to abstain.

The blond man was breathing hard, his eyes closed and his freckled, stubbled cheeks flushed a dark crimson colour. Phil’s brows knotted together in concern, his hand stilling on Clint’s back. Minutes had passed since the question was first spoken, and now each second was too long of a wait.

“Clint… please…?”

To Phil’s surprise, the Omega’s lips twitched, and then curved into a shaky, lopsided smile which in no way lacked any of its usual cockiness. They parted, and he snorted a short laugh, before uttering, “It’s cool, man, it’s green, I’m green, I just… I… needed to know that you would.”

Phil didn’t even know he had been holding his breath, but now it was burning in the centre of his chest, and he exhaled in a heavy, hurried rush of air. Clint was grinning at him now, lust and need and want and desire blazing behind the fog of his eyes as he peered at the Alpha over the sharp curve of his shoulder muscle.

“Aww, muffin, no. Were you… were you worried about li’l ol’ me…?”

Phil’s eyes flashed and the fingers of one hand lashed out, lightly spanking one of Clint’s exposed asscheeks. The man hissed through his teeth, but when Phil stole a glance at his face to check his immediate reaction, he was still wearing that shit-eating grin.

Not that Phil was surprised. There had always been the possibility that Clint was going to feel more comfortable doing this with his usual cocky, easy-going humour, instead of letting it turn into a serious, sombre, romantic affair. However he wanted it to play out in order for him to feel safe, Phil would roll with it.

“I still need to hear that colour again, Barton, before we proceed,” he said silkily, fingers teasing their way down the centre of his spine, and he relished in the way the small of Clint’s freckled back arched deliciously at his touch. 

“S-so,” the Omega responded, his eyelashes fluttering a little with the effort to restrain himself as his teeth grazed his lower lip, “if I don’t say a colour… y-you’re jus’... gonna be s-s-stuck here…?”

“If that’s your plan,” Phil responded in a dark, gravelly undertone, and he sank a little lower next to his agent, enough so that his lips brushed against the pierced shell of Clint’s ear when he next spoke. 

“But I warn you, Barton… if you want to take on the role of the bratty sub, then I will be more than happy to fill the boots of the dom you so desperately need.” His hand still for a moment on Clint’s back before sliding down again, around his hip to his abs, slowly… tantalizingly… creeping further and further south.

“So before you test my patience, you might want to think about how well you might endure the wrath of a man who has far more experience in this area of the bedroom than you do.” 

Inches before it reached the area that so  _ painfully _ required pressure, Phil’s hand fell to an abrupt stop. Clint’s lips parted, and the grin was gone, and he  _ gasped _ . It was the most beautiful sound he had ever made.

“So, Hawkeye… give me a colour.”

**Author's Note:**

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